


Adagio non troppo

by playitagainsam



Series: a nerd just like you [1]
Category: Mozart in the Jungle (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 17:07:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5673844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/playitagainsam/pseuds/playitagainsam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds himself listening to Herr Mozart’s work often.</p>
<p>One in particular – the Oboe Concerto in C Major – is constantly on repeat in his music player. He listens to it during his morning runs in Central Park, while sipping maté on the steps to Gloria’s front door, during showers in the bathroom, in bed before he falls asleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adagio non troppo

**Author's Note:**

> Picks up from where the tenth episode of the 2nd season ended and contains references to events that took place throughout the show.

The first thing she notices is the cold.

She looks toward the summit of the grey and white mountains, eyes dropping down to the dark trees and log cabins nearby. She wraps her arms around herself tightly, the chilly air seeping through layers of clothing.

_It’s… different_ , she thinks. Different from the green fields of prickly cacti, from the dusty streets and brightly colored paint peeling from old walls, from the warmth of the golden afternoon sun.

“You okay?” Erik asks her, smiling kindly.

She looks at him, smiling back. “Just a little cold.”

“Yeah, same here,” he says. “It’s a lot warmer in the cabin. Maybe we should get inside?”

She nods. “Sure.” 

She follows him into the nearest cabin, and is greeted by a maid who offers her a mug of hot chocolate on a silver tray. The cabin is large and the interior is mid-century modern, the focal point a high, vaulted ceiling with tall windows providing an unhampered view of the mountains beyond. A fire is burning in the fireplace, Le Corbusier sofa and armchairs arranged before it, sheepskin rug spread out on the floor. Erik drops onto one of the armchairs, removes his gloves with the ease and elegance of an assured young man with a fortune that she can only dream of.

She watches as the gloves come off, and thinks of another pair of hands, dancing, illuminated by stage lights, a baton held precariously between fingers – of the gentle, soft pad of a thumb against her cheek, against her collarbone, the back of her neck – of the faint, lingering taste of coffee on lips against hers, the scratch of stubble against her skin –

“Hailey?”

She blinks, and Erik is looking at her curiously.

“Sorry, spaced out.” She puts on a grin and plops ungracefully onto the other armchair. “Nice place.”

He smiles, relieved. “For a second there I thought you were regretting coming along.”

“What? No way, it’s great to finally get away from the city,” she says, smile in place as she sips the hot chocolate. “Really great.”

*

He finds himself listening to Herr Mozart’s work often.

One in particular – the Oboe Concerto in C Major – is constantly on repeat in his music player. He listens to it during his morning runs in Central Park, while sipping maté on the steps to Gloria’s front door, during showers in the bathroom, in bed before he falls asleep.

He thinks of those evenings whenever the third movement comes on, of a silhouette on the screen on stage – of bright eyes and a pleased laugh – of soft hair, the scent of coffee and avocadoes on skin – of the gentle curve of a shoulder against his cheek –

(“Poor, lovesick little Mexican street urchin,” says a voice with a thick Austrian accent, and he buries his face in his hands.

“ _Ay_ , Maestro!” he groans from behind his fingers. Herr Mozart regards him in amusement, powdered wig perfectly coiffed atop his head.

“You have been listening to my concerto one too many times,” the composer says, glancing at the screen of the music player. “Your Most Played list is quite telling.”

“It’s nothing, Maestro,” he says. “It’s nothing.”)

Mike comes by the house every afternoon. There’s no need, really – with the lockout still in place, it isn’t as though there is actual work for him to do, and most days he finds himself behind Gloria’s kitchen counter, his assistant at the table cleaning the maté jug and reading his emails aloud.

“There’s another one from the Times, they want to know when you’ll get back to them for a comment on the current – uh – situation,” Mike says, scrolling through his inbox. “One from Jimmy Fallon’s guys, they’re asking if you’re still okay for the 29th, and one from GMA, I think we’re going to have to tell them to cut out the musical performance – ”

He is only half-listening as he slices an avocado open, scooping the green flesh into a bowl. “Tell them no.”

“ – and they’ll probably – wait, what?”

“Tell them I’m busy.” 

“But – but – even Fallon? I mean, aren’t you guys buddies or something – ”

“Ah, he’ll understand.”

“Oh. Uh, so should I clear your whole schedule, or just these? I mean, since there isn’t any work to do, the lockout’s still on and the orchestra can’t perform – ”

“Exactly, Michel, exactly,” he says, grabbing an onion from the pantry and chopping it on a board. “Why should I be on TV, when my orchestra’s going through rough times? _Ay_ , it just sounds a little insensitive to me.”

“When you put it that way… Oh, there’s one from Hailey.”

“Oh?” He looks up for a second from the onion he’s chopping, and then returns his attention to the board.

“Yep. Says she’s in Montana, staying over at Winkelstrauss’ place. She has a room to herself and the view’s great, apparently. Man, these trust fund kids have everything.” 

He takes a tomatillo and proceeds to chop it, careful not to look up. “ _Sí_ , they do.”

Mike looks up from the laptop and watches him chop the tomatillo with unusual focus. “You okay, Maestro?”

“Eh? Of course, Michel,” he puts down the knife and searches through the pantry. Mike continues to scroll down the email, and is about to read the rest of it out loud when the loud slam of a cupboard door causes him to jump in his seat.

“ _Chingada madre_ , we’re out of limes.”

“I can go get some if you want – ”

“No, no, no, I’ll go,” he says, wiping his hands on a paper towel. “I feel like taking a walk, you know? Get some fresh air.”

“Oh, do you want me to come with – ”

“It’s okay, Michel, you stay here, answer the emails. I’ll go.”

He grabs his jacket from the coat stand and makes his way out the door. Mike turns in his seat to watch him leave, then looks back at the laptop screen, a frown set on his face.

*

She gets into an accident two days before their last.

It’s not such a bad fall, but she ends up with a damaged ligament in her left knee and has to stay in for the rest of their stay. Erik has one of the ground floor guest rooms made up for her and finds her a pair of crutches from the storage room. She spends her time resting on the sofa in front of the fireplace, practicing some of the pieces on Andrew Walsh’s setlist for his tour.

She finishes playing Morricone for the fifth time when she finally notices the sleek black record player and the records lined up in the console table against the wall. She sets down her oboe and slowly rises from the sofa, supporting herself on the crutches as she walks over to the console. Reaching down, she flips each of the records to one side to check the titles. The Who’s _Tommy_ … Otis Redding’s _Complete & Unbelievable_… the complete Bowie Berlin trilogy… Gustavo Dudamel and the Orquesta Sinfónica Simón Bolivar…

She carefully takes the last record out from its sleeve, and places it in the player. It’s all Latin stuff, she knows, so she isn’t at all surprised when a familiar piece comes on. It begins with the clarinet.

When she closes her eyes, she is no longer in Montana.

She is standing in the shade of a patio. Blue and white pennant banners are strung out high above the streets, each triangle fluttering in the breeze. Behind the sleepy town, the faded grey-green jagged mountains loom in the distance. Boys and girls of varying ages are all seated under the heat of the sun, a whole orchestra following the lead of the beaming man standing before them, his arms and hands moving according to the proper tempo.

The wide grin on his face makes him look much younger. Almost like the boy he was, and still is inside – the boy who dreamt, in that childhood bedroom with dinosaur bed sheets and football posters on the walls, of bigger, grander things. 

She watches the young musicians, and she watches him. And she thinks, in that moment, that she has never seen anything so beautiful in her life. 

After the last note, she breaks into applause. He turns to face her, his smile smaller, softer. He bows. 

_I see a connection between the two of you._  

“Danzón No. 2, right?”

She opens her eyes, and she is back in the cabin in Montana. Erik is leaning against the wall, his arms crossed while looking at her curiously. She puts on a smile.

“Yeah,” she answers, walking back to the sofa and slowly lowering herself to sit. She packs up her oboe and rearranges the sheet music.

“Really beautiful piece,” Erik comments, picking up the record sleeve from the console table. “Kinda makes you wanna dance, doesn’t it?” He grins at her, and then sees her crutches. “Not that – I don’t mean now, but, you know – ”

“Yup, I get it,” she says, letting out a little laugh. There is a sadness to it that she can’t suppress. “Maybe next time.”

Erik nods, and replaces the sleeve on the table. If he notices the look on her face, he doesn’t say a thing. 

*

He is alone in Gloria’s house again.

The lady of the house is out for lunch with other ladies, and he has insisted that Mike take the day off. He wants nothing more than to lounge about at home and not have to listen to another batch of emails from people he doesn’t know and doesn’t care about. Nothing more – except maybe avoiding a new email from her, probably gushing about how great the mountains are and how great Erik Winkelstrauss is, or how excited she is for Walsh’s European tour.

Or maybe being back in his old bedroom in Mexico, her skin beneath his fingertips, at that moment right before his grandmother came barging in.

_Ay, ay, Hai-Lai._

He puts his phone on the dock and searches his music library. His thumb hovers over the screen right above Mozart’s name, then he scrolls down and settles on Ravel.

Humming along to the Boléro, he opens the fridge and pushes aside the cling wrap-covered bowl of guacamole he made a few days ago. He takes out an opened can and sniffs. It’s some kind of paté, and he puts it back inside. The contents of the fridge are far from dismal – Gloria’s Paleo lunches, an opened low-fat milk carton, deli meats and cheeses – and the pantry is well-stocked, but he wants something greasy and filling and altogether unhealthy.

The number to the nearest pizza place is stuck to the fridge with a bottle cap magnet, and he uses the landline to call them, ordering a whole box for himself (and maybe Gloria, if he can convince her when she gets home). He waits at the kitchen table, browsing through the more recent issues out of Gloria’s collections of Vogue and Town & Country, raising his eyebrows at some of the more ostentatious beauty trends and at a photo of Edward Biben in one of the events pages. His lip curls when he spots Sharon lingering behind him, flash-induced red eye unedited.

He is halfway through an article on Jennifer Lawrence when the doorbell rings. He gets up and walks over to the door, turns the knob and yanks it open.

He freezes. It’s not the pizza guy.

“Hai-Lai…?”

She is standing on the doorstep, supporting herself with a pair of crutches, her wavy brown hair loose on her shoulders and her bright green eyes a little unsure, almost scared.

“Hi,” she says, her smile uncertain.

They stand there for a while, staring at each other, apprehension on one face and surprise on the other. There are a million and one things going on in their minds (“What am I doing here? “ _What is she doing here?_ ” “Oh, God, I’m so stupid.” “ _Isn’t she supposed to be in Montana? Or Europe?_ ”). His expression shifts, and breaks into a wide grin.

“Hi,” he says.

Relieved, she smiles freely. They stand there, smiling at each other, as though they were in that little bedroom in the old house, two silhouettes in front of his bed with the dinosaur patterned sheets.

This time, he makes the first move to kiss her.

***


End file.
